Red Teeth
by minerrvas
Summary: Amelia defines the term 'perfection' for herself. (Appearance by baby!Susan)


**Her Best**

To the unsuspecting, untrained onlooker's eye, unacquainted with the likes of Amelia Bones, exactly the named might appear but a simple woman, of few needs, dutiful and just. It is no mere coincidence British wizards and witches speak of _luck_ and _felicity_ when Mrs Bones, with strong feet and demeanour, stands tall – despite her small stature – amongst her fellow judges in the Wizengamot at a trial, ready to defend obvious evidence against prejudice and corruption. It is no mere coincidence the animosity between the Minister of Magic and the inferior – in rank, behold – Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement is no secret amongst the magical population of Great Britain, for Amelia Bones is unmatched in her policy of absolute honesty, and Cornelius Fudge's mouth is exceptional at pretending when blabbering but miserable at authentic smiles. It is no mere coincidence that, everywhere Amelia Bones goes, Amelia Bones is acknowledged with perpetual respect. They don't bow or kiss her feet like some officials of the same department want the magifolk to do upon seeing _them_ , and she doesn't expect let alone want them to. She can do without somebody's saliva on her shoes, thank you very much.

That, amongst other things, is the reason she was sorted into the house of badgers upon her entrance into Hogwarts, which now lies, in the timeline of life, many and more years in the past. She was but a blond, dewy-eyed girl hailing from one of the isles off the mainland's shores, determined to do her best but not yet knowing what _her best_ encompassed. To her, it was nothing but an extreme hiding in the twilight of the future, but thankfully, this uncertainty encouraged her to take further steps, into the vicinity of the candles floating in the Great Hall and the _light_ , which would hopefully help her uncover her path.

Amelia thought her path would remain empty of hideous and malevolent stones if she kept a keen eye in- and outside of her toil, but still the world proved to be of less simplicity than her nature was accustomed to (albeit, in this case, simplicity doesn't equal stupidity, indeed, is the latter's superior by far). Her excellent grades didn't save her from the deep abyss of her mind when she had to put up the iron pretense of liking boys in terms of shagging and marrying when she absolutely didn't and _doesn't,_ nor did something, somebody, come to her aid when she hid in her dorm's bathroom at night because her body weight didn't agree with society's expectations. For these reasons and more still, she hasn't ever accepted doing anything but _her best_ , because the sweat on her forehead and the steam coming out of her red ears has always helped her fill the holes she has never managed to find a proper needle and thread for. The details of that one mind-crushing contemplation, _her best_ , still lie on the horizon of her knowledge, present, proper and real but just out of her, bizarrely, greedy reach. So, it is this exact greediness which has steadily watered the plant of perfection in her mind.

Amelia never has let the plant eat her intestines or aught akin to which lies underneath everybody's skin, individual it may be, but the psychological herb has left its marks, permanent in their visibility – if heavily obscured by her habitual mask of calm – and certainty alike. After her little brother Edgar's death, she started wearing a dark shade of red on her lips, unconscious of but yearning its resemblance to the scarlet horror of blood. Unbeknownst to all but herself, perfection, her old frenemy, and despair touched her mouth in an unobtrusive but screaming cry of help after experiencing the doom and gloom Edgar's demise had bestowed upon her spirit – she brushed her teeth to the point of making her gums weep blood. She has had a hard time overcoming that particular tic ever since. But is this what _her best_ looks like, manifested in physical reality – the desire for the bleak white of her teeth, so irreversably consuming? She refuses to give the sanity-eating plant inside her head the satisfaction of saying yes.

Only very recently an incident – a rather large one, admitted, and rather time-consuming as well – has made Amelia an aunt. She has long since stopped thinking about the prospect of having her own offspring, content with her career, sexual preference and accepting of the solitude that comes with it in such an unprogressive environment (for it is _exactly_ that, no embellishments will convince her otherwise), so, and nevertheless, it is merely natural that she smiles when first holding the baby, a tiny, unbelievably tiny girl of zero years, zero months, zero weeks, zero days and a few hours, in her arms. _Susan_ , they have called her. If it indeed is an allusion to Amelia's middle name, which is _Susan_ and nothing but _Susan_ , she certainly feels flattered, never mind her daily life is eternally shaped by more straightforward methods of approach, no allusions or innuendos whatsoever. As she dares take a look at her niece's eyes, the oceanic lustre of her blue irises fills Amelia with such immediate, irrational joy, the woman simply has to shower Susan's soft, small cheeks with kisses, upon which the latter giggles in equal joy. In their sharing of such intense sentiment, Amelia ponders the idea of this very moment defining _her best_. The thought lacks rationale, perhaps… But perfection, this personal and happy and _complete_ perfection, is probably something meant to be experienced by the heart.

* * *

 **Is it obvious I'm reading Edgar Allan Poe right now?**


End file.
